Sherlock: Coach 13
by Marcy.Law
Summary: After Sherlock returns, he is given a case by mycroft- the conundrum of coach 13. (you might want to read Reichenbach rise, it's a continuation) - (NO SLASH)
1. Chapter 1

**Part 2**

"Bored!"

Bang. The bullet crashed into the familiar, bullet ridden eye of the yellow smiley face, spray painted on the living room wall of 221B Baker Street. Wood chips scattered onto the couch below.

"Bored!"

Bang.

"Bored. Bored. BORED!"

The three gunshots echoed his every word as Sherlock Holmes pranced about the living room, shooting the pistol wildly, restless and of course, bored.

Bang. The door flew open and John Watson stood at the frame, panting for his breath.

"Sherlock, what-." John sighed. "You're bored aren't you."

Sherlock tossed the pistol onto the table; it clattered against empty bottles of wine and empty nicotine boxes. He curled up in his armchair and flexed his toes.

"I need a case, John! I haven't had one since I've returned and if I don't get a good one soon, my brain will crumble and rot away. OH GOD. JOHN."

John raised his eyebrows curiously.

"John, I need some. Get me some."

John sighed again.

"And how am I supposed to get you one when you're supposed to be dead?"

Sherlock turned away.

"Oh come on Sherlock."

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson appeared at the doorframe.

"John?" she squeaked. "What was that noise? Are you talking to someone?" She gasped when she saw the fresh bullet holes in the wall.

"John Hamish Watson! What have you done to my wall!?"

"The wall had it coming." Sherlock drawled from his armchair.

"Sherlock!" she squealed, her eyes grew big and round in her old skull.

Sherlock smiled, turning the right corner of his lips into his genuine, intriguing smirk.

"Hello ."

Thud.

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of 221B Baker Street had fainted.

**What do you think? fanfic is cutting out some of my words in the sentence so I'm sorry if there are sentences that seem clunky. Please feedback me!**


	2. Chapter 2

"So the great Sherlock Holmes thwarts death once again, and returns to reinstate his fame."

Mycroft Holmes gave his little brother his most un-amused glare as he tapped his moleskin agenda impatiently but Sherlock was conspicuously busy, submerged in the morning newspaper.

"Come now, Mycroft. Would you like a cup of tea? You must be happy have your little brother alive and healthy!" Mrs. Hudson said as she placed the kettle and the saucer on the table.

Mycroft shot her a cold glance before he snapped his agenda shut.

"Quite."

"Of course, you must be wetting your pants with joy, my dear brother." Sherlock snarled, lowering the paper. The two locked glares, like two predators staring each other down.

John noticed the darkening atmosphere in the living room. "Well then. I uh, I'll buy some groceries for tonight. It's a, uh, good day to celebrate your return! Mrs. Hudson would you like to accompany me?"

"Oh that's quite alright dear, I've already brought groceries."

"Come along now, Mrs. Hudson!" And he marched her out of the room gently, slamming the door shut behind.

Sherlock folded up the paper and slammed it on the table, rattling the saucers.

"I suppose you're not here to offer me your sentiments nor a reunion, _dear older brother_."

Mycroft ignored him; instead he remained quiet and stroked his index finger along the spine of his agenda like it was a purring cat.

"A case." He said at last, and with that he flipped open his agenda. "We will meet with your client tomorrow at noon, 3pm sharp at the café downstairs. You _will_ come, and above all, you _may not_ wear your bed sheet."

"I'll do whatever I want." Sherlock snarled. He relaxed briefly, "who is the client?"

"Figure that out yourself." Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock got to his feet. His curly hair bounced about angrily as he opened the living room door.

"I _hate_ riddles."

Mycroft paused at the door frame. "Oh please, make a deduction. Who would seek the help of a _fraud_."

Sherlock went red, his cheekbones flared. "I am _NOT a FRAUD._ Now, good day to you Mycroft." And he slammed the door so hard the fringes groaned.


	3. Chapter 3

"American"

"What?" John said, raising his eyes from the café menu.

"American" Sherlock muttered again, his eyes locked on the large bay window of the cafe.

John eyed him curiously. "Sorry but, what's American?"

Sherlock shot him an impatient look. "Our client. Rich, desperate, and American."

"And how did you deduce that without even seeing him?" John asked, amazed. He had no doubts for Sherlock's skill in accurate deductions, it always bewildered him.

Sherlock sucked in his breath, keeping his eyes locked on the window. "Due to my tarnished reputation, only someone desperate would seek my help. Of course, this clearly means he has not reported his situation to any legal or federal agencies, hinting that he has probably done something illegal, or rather; he is trying to hide his situation from the officials. And Mycroft, don't you find it strange that my brother commanded me to take this case? Only a wealthy person would interest Mycroft. Of course, my brother also wants me to take this case as there must be a powerful connection that will help clear the Holmes name, being so, the client must be a foreigner; a wealthy American trader is the most probable deduction. Look, he's just arrived."

John spun around just as a large man dressed in a fine, white suit got out of a yellow cab. He fumbled with his pockets before handing over the cab fare to the cabbie.

"Notice how he just tried to pay the cabbie with American dollars but realized it was his other coat pocket that contained pounds?" Sherlock muttered to John.

The man swung the café door open. He nearly blocked out the door frame and John swore he could feel the ground rumble with his every step as he strode towards their table.

"Ah, you must be the great Sherlock Homes!" the large man roared in an American accent, shaking John's hand with his porky fingers. The ceiling lights seemed to flicker from the volume of his vocals.

"Hello, I'm John Watson, this here is Sherlock Holmes." John said, pointing at Sherlock who was giving the man his usual smirk. The man stuck out his hand but Sherlock ignored it. "Do sit, there is much to discuss I imagine." Sherlock said.

The man smiled timidly and closed his fist as he pulled the wooden chair out. The door swung open again and Mycroft came striding in to join the table.

He smiled at the man and sat down beside him. "Good afternoon to you Mr. Masterson; oh, please, I need no introductions." He added before glaring at Sherlock.

The American spoke again. "Mr. Holmes! Benedict Masterson. I've heard… many things about you."

Sherlock smirked in reply. A nervous waiter, obviously daunted by the size of Mr. Masterson rushed over to add two extra sets of cutlery and menu's before rushing away again.

"The situation is..." and he paused to let out a gush of air, "mysterious and distressing." He paused again as the waiter rushed to where the four were seated.

"Hello, I'd like to have the bangers and mash and a cuppa earl grey with sugar." John said, handing the menu over.

"Ehhh, uhhh, Fish and Chips for me and a cup of black coffee, thank you." Mr. Masterson rumbled.

"No thank you, I'm not hungry." Sherlock said in a monotone, bored voice and he gave Mycroft a dead stare.

"Nothing as well." Mycroft said, returning the stare.


	4. Chapter 4

"Gentlemen, I am America's most prominent platinum dealer. Platinum mining has been in my family for generations. Recently, I have been in London as the Bank of England has requested a substantial amount of platinum bars." Mr. Masterson said as he sipped his coffee carefully. "The platinum was transferred onto a charted London train to transfer to the bank yesterday. I went to Paddington yesterday, the train was there alright, Mr. Holmes, but the platinum was not." A stream of sweat had clouded the temple of his thick head.

"Ah. I see." Sherlock said. "Bo_ring_" he grinned and he got up to leave.

"Sit down." Mycroft snapped.

"Oh please." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This case should be seen by the police or officials first. I'm a _consulting detective._"

"Wait!" Mr. Masterson cried, and he heaved his bulky torso up. "Mr. Holmes, I'm talking about an amount that is worth four hundred to five hundred million American dollars."

John choked on his tea.

Sherlock ruffled his coat, ignoring Mycroft's death glare. "That _is_ quite a loss." He tapped his finger to his chin as he pushed in his chair. "Tell me, is there insurance coverage?"

"Yes, but you know how insurance companies are, they are ever so suspicious."

Sherlock froze. "Oh? Oh… how interesting." He smiled, took off his coat and sat back down. "The details, Mr. Masterson"

John eyed him conspicuously. "Suddenly, you're interested."

"Shut up, John."

"Sorry."

Mr. Masterson cleared his throat. "I commissioned to have a discreet, overnight train- no armour, no escorts, nothing that would attract attention. I was given a passenger train that returns from Bristol to London once a week; the unlucky special. The railway men call it that because the charter has thirteen coaches. The platinum was packed in steel containers, each container locked with a unique pass code and key. Each box carried its exact limit of platinum bars, no more, no less. The coach doors were locked from the outside and inside."

"So apart from the driver and the assistant, the train was empty then?" Sherlock asked.

"There was a guard on board; Mr. John Lions. Very trusted, very professional. I was happy to have him watch over the platinum. All of it was loaded onto coach thirteen." Mr. Masterson stopped and laughed at this. "In fact, the man should be working for a French railway company! Guard Lion. Guard Lion. Get it? Gare de Lyon? He chuckled.

Sherlock smirked. "Witty."

"Anyway, the train left Bristol at three in the morning, two days ago, and arrived at Paddington at six, the steel containers had vanished. The train stopped once, briefly for a minute for a mandatory check- there is no way they could have removed _one _box, let alone a hundred."

"What of the guard?" Sherlock asked.

"He said he fell asleep and when he awoke, the cases were all gone. The driver, assistant and the guard are all being held at Paddington station- all claim they are innocent."

"But that's not all is there?" Sherlock smirked.

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes?"

"What about your estranged wife?"

Mr. Masterson's bulky torso tensed up and he quickly set down his cup. "How did you know?"

"Too easy Mr. Masterson, the marking on your ring finger clearly shows that you are in an unhappy marriage. You only put it on to stop your wife's fussing, but take it off when you are away from her. Your clothing, style and professionalism state you are a man unburdened by sentiment, only wealth. Of course, naturally, instinctively, you doubt your wife for this mystery, however you feel obliged to keep unusually quiet about it because you believe that she is too mentally incapable to pull off such a stunt. You, you were seeing another woman last night weren't you; the slight stain of wine on your collar and your wedding ring in your left coat pocket. How did I figure that out? When you tried to pay for the cab earlier, you reached into your left pocket first, containing American dollars and of course, your wedding ring before you reached for your right pocket, containing pounds. With the ring in the same compartment as the cash, it serves a reminder for you to put it back on when you reach America. But that's not all."

Sherlock trailed off and gave him a smile.

"You want _more_, don't you Mr. Masterson."


End file.
